


oxidisation

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Morning Sex, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 13:19:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An obscenely warm hand settles into an obscenely right position on your hip, and he tastes of morning breath and sex from the night before. It’s actually kinda gross.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oxidisation

**Author's Note:**

> (slams fists on table) there is not enough dirkjake morning sex

 

You half-heartedly stumble into a weird semi consciousness, reminiscent of purple celestials and late nights, and he is kissing you. You maybe manage a confused furrow.

The room is white and grey and cream. His arm is wrapped around your shoulder, and he massages your crown - runs fingers through sweat-locked hair. You can feel the warmth from him seeping into the mattress; how it muffles his movement, and he tilts his head into what must surely be an uncomfortable angle. You breathe a little.

He leans back, though, and you permit a few years of locked gazes. His eyes are stymied with an awful dark grey, and reminds you all too much of copper. Greeny copper. A fitting simile, maybe, as you've seen him in the summer; pools, possibly, and mirrored with a lengthy description from a doorstop fantasy novel. Hmm.

Oxidisation, it’s called oxidisation.

You feel your face creak, scrunch, as your eyelashes sweep out the minute rheum. It’s raining outside, possibly an indicator of a clear afternoon, and it gently rustles and taps.  Impatient.

He smiles, and brushes his cracked lips against your nose. Exhales from his noise, and his hot breath is damp.

You suppress a laugh, and feel your cheeks puff out.

He brings his hand from your neck to lie flat on your face; presses the air out of your mouth gently. It makes a farting noise as it rolls past your lips. He beams.

He leans back in again, wet lips massaging yours, and he watches you as he does it.

You make a pointed effort of rolling your eyes, before shuffling forward. His midriff shunts against yours, as his lungs push the fat and skin forward. You kiss him back.

It’s slow.

You lean into him.

He opens his mouth a little, mouths you, and you feel an involuntary smile gloss over everything. An obscenely warm hand settles into an obscenely right position on your hip, and he tastes of morning breath and sex from the night before. It’s actually kinda gross.

You couldn’t give a shit.

His nose folds into and against yours as he moves, fluid. Sebum prickled and sweat masked, and your teeth catch his bottom lip clumsily. He doesn’t seem to mind too much.

He applies a little pressure at your side, and you yield. He rolls onto you, the sheets contorting and stretching, duvet cast aside.

He breaks away; leans his forehead down to yours and grins.

“I’m not doing this at fucking six am, Jake,” you mumble, and he kisses the corner of your mouth.

“It’s more like eight, actually,” and he runs his kisses to your jaw.

God, stop. “Fuck you,”

“Sure.”

You swat his side with a considerable lack of aggression. You hate mornings, and he knows you hate mornings. He also knows that you know that he knows you hate mornings. The cocky little shit.

He lowers his whole body down onto you, and he’s heavy. A good kind of heavy. Nuzzles the space under your ear, and you are actually appalled by how little you are resisting. He smells nice, you think dully, and it’s a traitorous, treacherous thought.

Your boxers are bunched around your hips, your shirt canting up. His bare chest and laughable briefs are making no attempt to hide anything, and his legs are scratchy against yours. His chest, which is equally wiry, rises and falls, and you mirror it. It’s a struggle on the intake.

The rain keeps pattering.

He brings his mouth back down to yours, and you wish there was an anti-sappy bullshit formula, or spray. How about an anti-Jake spray? and your tongue brushes against his teeth. Stomach flutters like a thirteen year old girls’ as you feel him beam into you.

This isn’t fair. “This isn’t fair,”

“Oh?” and he’s amused, and he leans back again. There’s a spit trail between you, and you think of gossamer and cheap cheesestrings.

There’s a dark curl on his temple, and it’s irritating. You tuck it behind his ear, and it pings back, with equally irritancy.

He shuffles a little.

His eyes flicker from left to right by a margin, monitoring yours in turn, and his face goes unreadable.

A small smile tugs at his dark lips and your heart does the fluttery swelling thingy again. Your nostrils pull a little, and you hope he can’t see your nose hair. You checked once, in the mirror, just to see if you even had any. You do. Okay, it’s small and fine, but you’re still kinda paranoid about it, and mayb

“You’re really pretty, you know.”

You blink.

You open your mouth to say something, because your face is heating up and you hate yourself, wow, no. Just.

He catches your words with his mouth again.

You feel yourself sigh into him; weave your fingers into his scalp. Your eyes fall shut, and you drink in his taste. Don’t think you’re quite awake yet, scold yourself for a lack of wit. Should’ve said something about girls. You ain’t no girl, because girls are blatantly more sappy and emotional and ah, yes, there we go.

Across the apartment, you can hear the fridge humming. The boiler clicks.

He’s speeding up slightly, pushing down on you a little more. He starts suckling on your tongue, _bless him, he’s trying so hard_ , and despite how you’re not much better at this than him, you feel a giggle wrap around your intestines. He notices your chest wracking, and smirks; the kisses get even sloppier.

Asshole, you think.

He rolls his hips down, and a flood of heat runs up your spine and also down to your groin. You ‘tsk’ at him mentally. Your ears ring with the almost-silence as his breath hitches.

He repositions himself, and you feel his knees dig into the mattress.

He tries again, and again, and the springboards are protesting. You can see the picket signs and the burning effigies already; tents pitched on the roadside. Media in shambles. “The youth of today,” the OAP with alopecia sighs, and he shakes his head sadly, dipping a digestive into his earl grey.

Jake grunts. It’s painfully attractive.

You don’t remember positioning your legs that wide apart. Neither do you remember shunting his underwear down, and yet.

He pushes his head to the side of yours, and his breath is hot and laced with something. You can’t think of a good descriptor. It annoys you.

You make a pathetic noise, and spend a small moment thinking about how you could justify it, but he interrupts by grinding down harder.

And it’s not hard or fast enough, you decide.

He starts getting louder. Trust him to do that, you think weakly, god, _fuck him_. Fuck him a lot. Fuck him for doing that right in your _goddamn_ ear. Fuck him for waking you up just to fucking - fuck.

You feel your eyes cement. God.

Your throat starts contracting as his clammy hands palm your sides, resulting in small hiccup noises. He has _the gall_ to pant out a laugh.

You choke out the first third of “Fuck you, English.”, and he agrees with the loudest moan yet, and his hips jarr.

He comes over your stomach.

He gasps.

You feel it smear between you, and his heart hammers. You froth with both disgust and a lack of an ability to give a shit.

He sits up a little, as if suddenly realising he’d left the fucking oven on, _about goddamn time_ , and unceremoniously digs his hands into your underwear.

He starts to jack you off, and you really hope he’s not keeping a tab on these noises your making, because this is just downright humiliating.

You bite your lip as you fuck his hand, and you think maybe it’s decadent, and maybe it’s infuriating.

He doesn’t get off as you both ease down.

It’s still raining.

You can feel the spunk drying and crusting slowly, as the cars whine outside, and maybe that’s romantic.

You stroke his sweaty and hot hair absentmindedly. He brings his hands away from your dick, to try and do the same, and you shoot him something aggressive. Or at least, you hope it’s aggressive. Realistically? It’s probably more tired.

“I need a piss,” he muses, as he drags his eyes over your lips.

“Not on me,” you manage.

You lie there for a few more minutes.

He sighs and leans upright. Kisses your forehead, and his stubble is even scratchier than his legs. “Wouldn’t have thought of you as a lad against such a thing,” he jokes.

He sits up on the side of the bed, stretches his arms forward, and it’s suddenly cold.

“Christ,” you mumble, turning over and grabbing for the duvet. He chuckles.

You hear him get up and amble into the onsuite.

“Could you at least shut the door?” you groan, rubbing your eyes, but you’re smiling again.

“Nope!” he says.

“I hate you,”

“What was that?”

“You’re a fucking idiot, and I hate you.”

“Charming.”

“Says the guy pissing with the door open,”

He laughs.

A few minutes later, the bed dips again.

“You didn’t even flush. Remind me again why I put up with you.” and you shake your head a little.

He says nothing, and wraps his arms around you.

“This is fucking disgusting.” you say. “ _You’re_ fucking disgusting.”

“’love you too,”

You try to kiss him, and you miss. He laughs again.

 

 


End file.
